Revenge of the Billionaire Heiress

From the far corner of the ballroom, Ashton observed the fundraiser like one might observe a fire behind glass, contained, fascinating, and not his problem.

The room pulsed with wealth and ego: legacy families, ambition, new money trying to act old. He could see every social maneuver from twenty paces every fake laugh, hidden agenda, veiled insult in polite conversations.

He preferred this spot. Quiet. Removed. Calculated.

His fingers curled around his glass of whiskey, untouched.

To anyone else, it might seem like disinterest. But to those who knew him it was control.

"You really should try smiling once in a while," came a voice at his side.

Grant Sinclair.

Ashton didn't turn. "Wouldn't want to mislead anyone."

Grant chuckled under his breath. Like Ashton, he wasn't one for small talk. Which was probably why their partnership worked five years in, and they still hadn't wasted a sentence.

"Your donation caused quite the stir," Grant murmured, eyes tracking the crowd. "You didn't even flinch."

"I didn't donate for applause," Ashton replied.

"I know. You did it because you could."

Ashton finally glanced at him. "So did you."

Grant smirked. "Touché."

They stood in silence for a beat, both watching as Arabella's voice cut sharply across the ballroom. She was mid-argument with Preston at the other end.

Ashton didn't react. But Grant followed his gaze.

Before either could speak, another figure appeared.

Hudson, the eldest Sinclair brother, all mischief and sharp cheekbones.

"God," Hudson said, sipping something with too much citrus. "You two look like you're plotting a murder or founding a bank."

Grant arched a brow. "Why not both?"

"I'm serious," Hudson said. "Every time I see you and Ashton in a room, it's like watching two thunderclouds refusing to acknowledge they're both made of lightning."

Ashton gave him nothing. Silence was his favorite language.

Hudson leaned on the railing beside him. "Anyway, at least you both make sense. Unlike my idiot future brother-in-law."

Grant didn't respond. But Ashton's gaze flicked his way.

Hudson shrugged. "Preston's all charm and cotton candy. Barely knows what Bella likes for breakfast after three years together."

Then why is she still with him?" Ashton asked, not because he cared, but because people said more when you gave them space to explain.

Hudson rolled his eyes. "Because she's loyal. And patient. Too patient. Preston's a spoiled golden retriever with good hair and no bite. He's not built for someone like her."

Ashton let the words hang, not confirming or denying.

"Anyway," Hudson said with a grin. "Glad you're here. Your club's been all anyone's talking about."

Ashton gave the faintest nod.

Hudson raised a brow. "No comment?"

"I don't need to comment on something that works."

God, the man could make silence sound arrogant.

Eventually, the evening began to dull into its post-auction haze. Ashton knew how to time his exits: not too early to seem dismissive, not too late to get cornered by someone with opinions and cheap perfume.

He made his rounds like a shadow, efficient, polite, forgettable if you didn't know where to look.

He shook hands with three VC partners, nodded at a congressman he privately funded, exchanged cool pleasantries with a Wintour board member, and finally turned to his father, Charles Kingsley.

"Going?" the older man asked.

"Business in the morning."

Charles nodded. "I heard the amount. Impressive."

Ashton said nothing. His father had always appreciated power, not praise.

Then came his stepmother Preston's mother smiling like a debutante and radiating the venom of a snake in pearls.

"Ashton," she said sweetly. "I didn't even see you all night."

"I was here," he replied, voice like a locked door.

She opened her mouth to say more, but he was already turning away.

No room for conversation. No patience for hypocrisy.

As he exited the ballroom, he passed one last swirl of photographers. Somewhere behind him, Arabella's laughter rang out sharp, practiced, beautiful.

He'd never had a real conversation with her. Just shared awkward holiday dinners, a few glances across over-lit boardroom brunches, a handful of stilted hellos in his father's house.

She was Preston's problem.

And Ashton Kingsley didn't waste time on things that weren't his to break or to want.

He slipped into the car waiting out front, the door shutting like the end of a sentence.

And just like that, he was gone.